CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“One is wise to assume all one’s choices are of importance to the outcome, whether they appear directed by some external force or not. As I explained to my former lady’s maid only yesterday, one cannot blame one’s misfortune on the weather when one is caught ‘keeping warm’ with the coachman and a flask of gin.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter filled with accumulated wisdom.
Many things in Phoebe’s life had happened by chance. Her mother’s death. Her father’s. Augusta being born eight years before her. Meeting Glassington at house party where only local gentry were expected.
Today, she could list one more: the arrival of a note delivered by Mr. Duff at the very moment she was passing through the entrance hall on a mission to speak to Cook about adding more ginger to the ginger biscuits. It was an odd coincidence. One might say prophetic, given its occurrence the day after she’d nearly lost Augusta.
The note was addressed to Reaver, not her, but she happened to be near the door, so she answered the knock. And she happened to get on quite well with Mr. Duff, so he was pleased to allow her to pass the note along. And she happened to see what looked like Glassington’s name through the outside of the folded paper.
So she opened it.
And her throat began to ache.
And she recalled everything Augusta had sacrificed for her sake.
And she thought how selfish she had been, despairing that she must marry Glassington.
Augusta would not hesitate to do what was necessary. She would make a plan and charge forward. Now, Phoebe intended to do the same.
First, she arranged to have the carriage brought around. Then, she packed a valise, tucking the coins Augusta had given her inside. She penned a note to her beloved sister and bundled it together with the note addressed to Sebastian. And she left the house.
On the journey to Reaver’s club, she reviewed the note in her mind.
Remembered Augusta being carried out of that hideous house in Cheapside, stunned and wheezing.
Remembered Augusta being struck by Georgiana’s blows as she covered Phoebe like a warrior’s shield.
Remembered Augusta forbidding Phoebe to help with the laundry because Phoebe must have “a lady’s hands” if she wished to be a lady.
Then, she steeled her spine, layered stone around her bleeding heart, and did what must be done.
*~*~*
It was nearing Christmas, so Reaver’s was a bloody madhouse. Every man was in his cups. Every man wished to celebrate the sacred occasion with wild wagers and wilder revelry. Adam had been running the entire day.
Which explained why he did not read the note until half-past-four. Satisfaction surged through him as he realized the implications. Only a matter of time now. Soon, Phoebe would be his.
Unless.
He went cold, reading the words. Knowing Drayton would have notified not just Adam but Reaver, too.
Phoebe would be his unless Reaver was more persuaded by his devotion to Augusta than his loyalty to a friend—even a best friend. A partner.
There could be little doubt Adam required insurance. Tucking the note inside his coat pocket, he charged from his office to Reaver’s.
“Frelling,” he said crisply. “I need a set of markers.”
Frelling frowned and rose from his desk, leading the way into Reaver’s office. “Which file are you seeking?”
“Glassington.”
Frelling adjusted his spectacles and browsed the drawers behind Reaver’s desk. He held up a finger as he pulled open a drawer. “Ah, yes. Here.” He withdrew the file. And found it empty. “I—I don’t know where … Mr. Reaver must have …”
Adam was no longer listening. He was stalking out of Reaver’s office, headed for Reaver’s house. Along the way, he encountered Duff, who mentioned seeing Miss Widmore earlier in the day—twice. Once at Mr. Reaver’s house and once there, at the club.
“She asked about hirin’ a post-chaise.” Duff shook his head and frowned. “Odd thing, that. Reaver’s coach is a far sight better than a post-chaise.”
Adam listened, all the while growing colder and more furious. He mounted his horse and galloped for Reaver’s house as though hell itself were at his heels.
He arrived with a scattering of snow on his coat and a feeling of dread in his gut. Reaver’s new butler, Teedle, waved him inside. “I’m afraid Mr. Kilbrenner is not at home, Mr. Shaw.”
“Of course he is. You may fetch him or I will.”
Teedle sputtered a protest.
Adam drew close to the white-haired servant. “Now, my good man. I haven’t time for games.”
“He—he is indisposed. With Mrs. Kilbrenner.”
“Ah. Why didn’t you say so?” Adam brushed past the butler and headed upstairs, ignoring the man’s indignant blustering.
Adam knocked on Reaver’s bedchamber door. Loudly.
A deep, bellowing reply came immediately. “Bloody, bleeding hell! The house had best be on fire, Teedle!”
A feminine laugh was followed by a bit of conversation.
“Reaver!” Adam shouted. “Pull your arse out of bed, man. I must speak with you.”
When the door was yanked open a minute later, Adam frowned. “By God, you are a monster. Where is your shirt?” He glanced past Reaver’s naked shoulder to the woman cinching a dressing gown over a garment that more properly belonged on a man. “Ah, that explains it.”
Reaver’s black scowl deepened as he gave Adam a hard shove. “Keep your eyes off her, Shaw.”
Adam winced and rubbed his own shoulder. “Bloody hell, man. Calm yourself. You know where my affections lie. On that subject, what have you done with Glassington’s markers?”
“Nothing. They’re at the club.”
“No,” he snapped. “They are gone. And so is Phoebe.”
Augusta ducked beneath her husband’s braced arm to stand beside him. “What is this about Phoebe?”
Reaver grunted. Adam translated the sound to mean he’d rather not involve Augusta in whatever mess Adam was bringing to his doorstep. But Adam did not have time for Reaver’s protective instincts. He needed to find Phoebe and stop her before she did something idiotic. Like marry Glassington.
“Phoebe has fled north in a post-chaise,” Adam said flatly. “Likely with Glassington’s markers, and likely with the intention of forcing his hand.”
Augusta blinked several times in rapid succession. “Beg your pardon?”
Teedle, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward. “Madam, your sister did leave a note for you. I was waiting to deliver it until … well, until …” He cleared his throat.
Adam waved impatiently. “Yes, yes. Until they emerged to retrieve something vital, like food or air. Fetch the note, Teedle. Do it now.”
Frowning, Augusta reprimanded, “Mr. Shaw, really. I am not certain what is causing this sense of urgency, but—”
“Your sister is gone.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it is my business to know.”
“I don’t see why.”
Reaver hugged Augusta’s waist with one hand. “He cares for her, Gus.”
She looked up at him, her frown deepening. “Well, they are friends, I suppose. Mr. Shaw was kind to her—”
“I love her. And she loves me.”
Gray eyes widened upon him. Her mouth tightened into a flat line.
Teedle arrived, bearing two notes on a silver tray. Good God, the man was painfully formal.
Augusta plucked up the note from Phoebe, while Reaver unfolded the one addressed to him. Together, they read the missives, Reaver squinting and holding the paper at arm’s length while Augusta paled and covered her mouth with her fingers.
Reaver was the first to speak. “Glassington has taken Miss Elder and bolted for Scotland. He intends to marry her as soon as they arrive. Evidently, my visit to her father proved effective, after all, as Mr. Elder raised objections to the match. That left Glassington no choice but elopement.”
Augusta looked again at her husband. “She has gone after them, Bastian. She is alone. Headed north. And she has the markers.”
“I must go,” Adam said, turning away.
“Mr. Shaw.”
He turned to face her.
“She is with child.”
“I know.”
Augusta blinked. Her mouth opened and closed. “If she marries you rather than Lord Glassington, everyone else will know, too. You understand that, yes?”
“I am not daft, Mrs. Kilbrenner. Glassington and I are hardly twins.”
Her slender jaw flickered. “Do you not think my sister deserves an easier life than the one you can offer?”
“Perhaps she does. But she also deserves a man who will fight for her, not one who discards her like a bit of rubbish and has to be blackmailed into marriage. She deserves to be loved. Nobody could possibly love her more than I do.”
Nibbling her lip, Augusta glanced up at Reaver. “Did you know?”
He sighed. “Aye. Shaw told me yesterday.”
She narrowed her eyes upon Adam. “What is your plan?”
“To find her. Persuade her marrying Glassington is madness.”
“It is not madness. It is sensible. He is the father of her babe. She will be a countess. The babe will be the child of an earl, perhaps even an earl himself, one day.”
Adam’s voice went quiet. “And he cares so little for her that even your attempts at blackmail have driven him not to marry Phoebe but to elope with another woman.”
She glared up at Reaver. “Do you intend to remain silent as a great block of stone?”
“What do you wish to hear?”
“Your opinion on the matter.”
“I think Phoebe should decide for herself.”
“That is dreadfully unhelpful.”
Reaver shrugged. “You asked.”
“Well, I think we should go along.”
“We?”
“You and I. If Mr. Shaw intends to intervene, then I want to be there. For Phoebe.”
Rubbing his brow, Reaver gritted, “By God, you are a nuisance, woman.”
“Yes, yes. Now, the likeliest route is the Great North—”
“—Road. Aye. Shaw, meet us downstairs in twenty minutes. Ask Teedle to prepare the coach.”
The door slammed in Adam’s face, though he could still hear arguing behind it. The arguing stopped abruptly.
Adam straightened his coat and started for the stairs. The entrance hall seemed a fine place to wait, after all.
*~*~*
By the time they reached Smithfield and headed north, the snow had begun to fall in earnest. Fat flakes swirled and floated in the lantern light while, beyond the coach window, all else was dark.
Augusta sighed and laid her cheek against Sebastian’s arm, holding his hand tighter. She eyed Adam Shaw and wondered if he was the reason for the despair she’d sensed from Phoebe over the past weeks. The man was undeniably handsome. Refined features. Lean and well proportioned. He had a crisp quality about him, energy that was focused. Controlled.
She preferred her own rough man, of course, but she could understand Phoebe’s attraction. Earlier, when Augusta had demanded that Bastian tell her more about Mr. Shaw, his answers had unsettled her.
“He is a fine man, Gus. He will care for Phoebe with all his might and considerable fortune, of that you may be certain. But if you think to thwart him, know this. A man does not rise as far as he has without having a bit of ruthlessness in him. Shaw had further to climb than most. So he has more of it than most.”
“You are saying I should not stand in his way, that I should simply allow this to happen.”
Bastian had sighed. “I am saying, should you decide to stand in his way, you must be prepared for defeat.”
She had not liked his answer, but she’d understood. Shaw might wear the mask of a majordomo, elegant and dignified, but he was a powerful man in his own right. As a full partner in Reaver’s, he was as wealthy as Sebastian. He could care for Phoebe and her child. Protect them from the worst trials—poverty, danger, hunger.
But some difficulties remained inevitable. Marriage between them would invite the meanest sort of societal scorn. Such attitudes were, in Augusta’s opinion, idiotic—her father and uncle were proof that one would be well advised to assess others based on individual character rather than arbitrary factors such as title, origin, or name. Nevertheless, she expected Phoebe would be judged poorly for marrying an Indian man. When she birthed her first child, she would be further seen as a fallen woman. The child would find little acceptance in polite society. And her other children with Mr. Shaw would likely struggle to find their place.
How Augusta wished it were not so. But it was.
She fell asleep with her heart aching for her sister. She awakened when Bastian kissed her lips and murmured, “Come, love. Let us go inside where it is warm.”
She blinked, realizing the coach had stopped. “Where are we?”
“Near Stevenage, I think. The snow is growing too deep, so the coachman stopped at the first inn he could find. Shaw is inside now securing our accommodations.”
As Augusta’s half-boots crunched down into six inches of white, she began to worry. What if Phoebe had continued on? It was dangerous enough for a female traveling alone at night on the Great North Road. Add poor weather, and the risks increased greatly. Would she insist on traveling onward, despite the conditions? Surely she—
Augusta blinked and shook her head as they entered the inn’s dark, warm interior. There, by the stone hearth, stood Phoebe, who appeared flushed from either the fire’s heat or her present interaction with the handsome Mr. Shaw. He stood very close, his head bent near hers, speaking with an intensity she recognized after hours in his company. Phoebe, meanwhile, had a pugnacious tilt to her chin and a blaze in her eyes that rivaled the one in the hearth.
Her sister gazed up at Adam Shaw, eyes shining. Alive.
Good heavens. Phoebe loved him. Emotion choked Augusta, rushing in upon her all at once. She had not seen Phoebe this incandescent in … well, ever. After months of listless despair, Phoebe had awakened.
And Adam Shaw was the cause.
*~*~*